


dabbling in drabbeling

by Muesli_Basic_Bitch



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Bad Poetry, Daddy Issues, Diary/Journal, Drabble, Family, Nonbinary Character, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poetry, Self-Reflection, expermineting with words, no beta we die like men, non specified characters, not really drabbles, original non binary character - Freeform, painting with words, unnamed character - Freeform, vivid descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27952016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muesli_Basic_Bitch/pseuds/Muesli_Basic_Bitch
Summary: this is me practicing my writing and setting an end to my perfectionism by publishing them so i cant edit them anymore.





	1. Black and Blonde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They never made him pinky swear his promises. Pinky promises weren't meant to be broken, after all.

He didn’t have black hair. The implications of this simple observation eluded them for a solid few minutes until their brain caught up with their eyes.

He didn’t have black hair. The statement echoed hollowly through their mind as if to taunt them, effectively erasing any other thought that might have blossomed otherwise. He didn’t have black hair. How didn’t they know? Why hadn’t they known? `Well,’ they mused, `the why is actually pretty clear.’ After all, he had left before they could form any real memories of him, their toddler mind not yet equipped with a long-lasting memory section. After that, they really didn’t care to learn about a man that had left without a second thought, even when their sister saw him every other week. But still, it hurt. Pretty badly so.

They had thought heir father had black hair all their life. Granted, they were still a teenager, so their life hadn’t been that incredibly long until now. But still. Normally one just knew the hair color of one’s parents. But no, of course they were the exception. He didn’t have black hair. He did however have the same dark, unruly shade of blonde that they grew as well. The shade of blonde they had been covering in black hair dye for years by now. Not that they intentionally tried to match themselves to the illusion of that man, (now that they knew it had all been just in their head, they could finally openly acknowledge it as such) but id had been oddly comforting, in a strange kind of way. To have a part of him. They supposed the fact they looked like an exact copy of both their parents separately should have made them happy. Or at least content. They did long for this kind of permanent, non-erasable connection to someone- anyone at this point, deep down somewhere. 

But it was their parents. They didn’t like their parents at best. With their mother, more often than not it was burning rage and pain and panic and `oh god, please no, I can’t anymore, please make it stop, it hurts’ and ragged breaths and years and years of therapy. 

With their father it almost always had been disappointment upon disappointment, after he had left. And the feeling of being left behind and not needed and being forgotten. Not that he did that on purpose, that much they knew by now. After blaming him and fuming at the mere mention of his name for years on end, they realized at least that much. That knowledge somehow made it worse. Being cast aside, not being important, being overlooked had become one of their greatest, most silencing fear and also their silent expectation. A scenario they lived through daily, hourly, with every single breath they took. 

`I will call you in the next few days’, he had said before disappearing for a few months instead. They had expected nothing else, after all these years of these kind of promises that he never once kept, not ever. Still, as always, they had hoped. The emptiness left behind was something familiar and aching and numbing. They liked to pretend they didn’t care anymore. And really, they didn’t. There were no tears or heart wrenching sobs. 

But the little, thoughtless trinkets he had given them over the years in order to appease his guilt for not being a father figure to his first-born child by spending ridiculous amounts of money still filled a few drawers and boxes back home. They tried not acknowledging them or to even look at them. But they existed. Quietly. Exactly like the thoughts in the back of their head that quietly nursed their hope that maybe, he would change. He had promised after all. So maybe, this time, he would try. They never made him pinky swear his promises. 

The photograph of their father in his teenage years with his soft blonde hair flying crazily in the invisible gust of air mocked their silent hope.  
Pinky swears were not meant to be broken after all.

The feeling of it being over followed them everywhere. What exactly had ended they didn’t really know. But it didn’t really matter. They didn’t really matter. Their father had 2,75 children. Two girls, one boy and them. One of their sisters visited every few weeks. She was the second born and big sibling to the other two. They weren’t even that. They sometimes had holidays. And for all their bragging to everyone that would listen and for alle the frames photos on their wall, nothing could replace being an actual sibling to your own siblings. They supposed this was the same feeling their father had while looking at them. The feeling of being too late and not knowing how to make up for lost time. So, they did, what they both did best. Not being involved. They had learned from one of the best, after all.  
All of their siblings had blonde hair. They couldn’t believe that this recessive gene had survived in all of them. All of their sibling looked like exact copies of both their parents but looked nothing like each other. Their father was the only permanent link they shared, after all. 

For such a fickle man to be called a link was bordering on self-deception, but it was the truth. The truth that attested to the quality of their shared relationship. Wonky at best, `who are you’ at worst.  
They gave up on family pretty easily after they noticed themselves buying another stuffed animal to appease their guilt of not being a good sibling. Their siblings never made them pinky promise anything ever again.  
Their hair was jet black in every photo one could find of them  
Pinky promises had never meant to be broken, after all.


	2. Painting with Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another drabble i wrote while practicing forming appealing sentences

The dark abyss of the chamber tended to blacken out every detail, even when the small lamp in the corner stood lit on the table. Its shine barely reached half of the nooks, so that everything had prominent shows cats upon it that exaggerated outlines and made borders between colors and shapes vanish. The mismatching wooden furniture seemed vacant, the only thing placed on aforementioned table was the lamp and a ticking alarm clock. These were everywhere in the room: one laid delicately on top pf the always closed wardrobe; the bay blue clock had stopped making noises a long time ago. One was perched up on the black bookcase standing in all its glory in the middle of the room, separating the area between door and metallic framed hammock. To create the appearance of a snails’ shell a smaller, stark white shelf met the much bigger one in a 90 degrees angle. Ticking at a different interval than the one on the table, there sat the third alarm, ready to be used. 

The much too big bed seemed to be left out as it was silently standing in the far-off corner outside the comfortable space the bookcases created between them and the walls. Strewn across gloomy dotted, for weeks untouched bedsheets were various plushies of all sizes and shapes, although mostly as monochrome as the rest of the room. Their normally rather comforting existence was changed into slightly creepy when one first took a glance at them through the door they were across of, the narrow tunnel created by the backside of the bookcase and the wardrobe practically leading towards them, the darkness not really helping their case. The atmosphere was changed from wallowing to generally sad because of the upbeat sounds emitting from the speaker box located behind a fairly grand CD collection in one of the black shelves` sections. 

The sounds coming from there were constantly looped, as the same silvery disk was played over and over.   
The rooms vacant feel was backed up by the coldness of it: at the most it suffered through 20 degrees Celsius, but most of the time it was a considerably less exhausting temperature. That this was something the resident had purposefully done became apparent through the amount of empty and half full blue bottles scattered across the room that hinted at a not very heat resistant person. Those being the only entities that weren’t in place and neatly tucked away.   
Old, dusty, partially leatherbound books stood row upon row, the bright colors of their spines popping against dark wooden background. The only thing that appeared to be used regularly was the blue striped hammock; the same-colored bedsheets that covered the bed were used as duvet and pillowcase, more plushies laid beneath and atop the thin fabric. The window by it was open, occasionally you could hear the sounds of cars driving by or even chattering from passerby’s, although you could never place an image to these noises, as the blinds were firmly closed to make the heat and sun stay outside, eliminating every ounce of light in the process. There was a red string tied between the open window and the knob of the closed one where white cotton gloves were hung up with white wash pins to air out.   
This was a dark abode, with nothing decorating it, a functional always clean space.


	3. No Effort

You never called.  
To expect that from you of all people had been ridiculous of me.  
Why do you never see  
What the lack of action from you of all people means to me?

You never apologized.  
Not in all these years after all these things you didn’t do.  
I think we’re through  
Is what I would like to be able to tell you. 

You never understood.  
Even when I tried to explain to you of all people how I feel.   
Your worry is never real.  
You don’t care about the cards you of all people and my life did deal. 

You always promised.   
The sudden memories I sometimes get about you of all people prove you wrong.   
Why do I still long  
For you of all people to love me and to hold on?

You always talked.  
About how you of all people would never lie.   
How I should try to try  
To forget about you of all people being the one to always make me cry.

I only wanted.   
You didn’t give me of all people the affection I sought.  
The kind that couldn’t be bought.  
There are tears in my heart that you of all people will never spot. 

(If only you called.  
If only you apologized.   
If only you understood.   
If you not just promised.  
If you not just talked.)

But my regrets aren’t yours to shoulder.   
Like your name isn’t mine to bear.   
I grew up, I got older.  
And my life is nothing I have to share.  
Not with you of all people.


End file.
